


But Then Face to Face

by MJ (mjr91)



Series: "Through a Glass Darkly" cycle [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-25
Updated: 2012-04-25
Packaged: 2017-11-04 07:54:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mjr91/pseuds/MJ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft invites Sherlock to his flat for dinner.  Much ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But Then Face to Face

**Author's Note:**

> Comes before "But Joy Cometh in the Morning".  
> Non-graphic.  
> Warning: Strongly implied reference to child sexual abuse (by other character, off-stage).

He is at my flat tonight, my offer of a bottle of a Warre 1878 oporto eagerly accepted. I have made note to thank my wine merchant, a fellow clubman who had recommended it with a suitably dour attitude, for the excellent choice; only the newly bottled and as yet undrinkable 1896 vintage was said to be as choice. It is a mere 18 years old, yet perhaps just old enough to begin to be enjoyed, much as a callow university undergraduate of the same age is beginning to develop his true self in body and in mind – still a bit raw, but the great framework slowly emerges, and finally the chrysalis peels away, revealing a young man – er, a wine; I must focus! – gracefully emerging into its prime.

I have seen to having a fire laid, to ward off the chill in the evening air, and he languishes elegantly in one of my armchairs, observing the rich color of the wine in the crystal prison he holds in his hand. My own glass is in my hand as I lounge against the corner of my mantel (much less crowded than his, I might add, and without any trace of knife or dagger affixed to it, a dreadful habit) and observe him.

_Quis custodiet ipsos custodies?_ Who watches the watcher? I do. I watch a man who is contemplating the mysteries of the universe within a drop of port wine, and as he contemplates those, I contemplate the mysteries within him, the mysteries not so mysterious to myself as to others, the mysteries I would dare to know fully.

"The change in the pattern of your breathing suggests that you are apprehensive about something. I might have suspected that you wished to consult me on a matter of state."

Leave it to him to be the one who watched this watcher, of course. I must amuse myself, however, with his faulty conclusion drawn on insufficient information – namely, of the true nature of my thoughts.

"It is true that the affairs of the day press upon me. However, I do not wish to draw you into them, as they are not of such consequence as to require the two greatest minds ever fully or intermittently in Her Majesty's employ to settle them. Tonight the spies are abed, and the Royal Navy sails unmolested by enemies."

He murmurs some platitude in reply, and we continue in companionable silence, thank whatever deities the universe has seen fit to guide our planet. I cannot imagine that the God that Her Majesty's Church worships is an effectual one; I have seen too much in my life to believe that anything except conflict between the gods could possibly reign in Heaven. I attend church when it is seemly and prudent for a civil servant to do so, much as I do anything in public that I cannot avoid doing at all. The impression that Brittania is eternal and that it shall never change shall not be sullied by my public presence. What we English do to disgrace God and the Crown, we do behind the closed drapes of our homes, as has always been done among us.

As has always been done in my family. Cocaine is not our family's only vice, and more than one vice has not confined itself to one person or one generation alone. We are the sum not only of our own experiences, but of our progenitors' lives and experiences. I believe that someday scientists will be able to take a drop of our blood or a sample of our skin, or peer at our brain, and read these things.

"You are unusually thoughtful for having no crisis in the government, are you not?"

"I am. I was musing upon our family. It is quite a past that we have, and not only because of Vernet. I do believe that if its history were published, we would be declared works of fiction."

He shuddered. "Would that our family's history were never published. Or at least not our immediate family's. What is buried must stay buried."

"Indeed?" I find myself asking him. "Was all of it that horrid? Is there nothing to redeem it?"

He looks up at me, haunted, as I look down at him, intrigued. "Our father. You know what he did. Did he not do so to you, as well as to me? I have sent men to prison for far less than his crimes against us."

I find myself shuddering now along with him. Our mother was the living embodiment of a gentlewoman, poised, refined, intelligent, and loving. Our father was renowned as an intellectual in our community, and saw that we were not only educated but overeducated in those subjects which were of interest to him – of other subjects, except for the reading which our mother saw that we had, we learned little or nothing. His other interests were unknown to the community, and had they been communicated to our mother by us, she, who thought too well of all, would undoubtedly have refused to believe us.

"He did, indeed."

"His vices were unspeakable – would you have the world know of it? Or your club, or my friend Watson? Such things should never happen."

His words impel me to push forward to those subjects I should not allow myself to imagine, but cannot stop myself from imagining. "Are you suggesting that such intimate acts should themselves never occur between two persons, or do you mean that the way it was done, and by whom, is the crime?" I pause. "The latter, man universally, and rightly, condemns; the former is a matter of place and of time. What our Queen condemns, the ancient Greeks encouraged."

He pauses and his expression changes, as I knew it would, for I have thrown him a new bone to gnaw upon. "As you should know, I have let more than one man go free for actions our law would condemn, because I do not believe those acts worthy of human punishment. Our father was a criminal, much as family and friends lauded him. What two adults do freely, on the other hand, is not my concern."

I approach his chair, walking behind it and laying my free hand upon his shoulder, clutching my glass for the strength I need to continue, as if the power of its contents can energize me through the crystal. "What sins the father has committed, may the son not expunge? He neither knew us well nor loved us much, but we know each other better and more intimately than any other person may ever know either of us. As you yourself say, what two adults do freely…" I can speak no more; I cannot believe that I have spoken even these words, words which would be enough to disgrace me and my post, and perhaps place me in Broadmoor were they ever revealed outside this room.

He starts, then rises from his chair, his drink also in hand. The look I expect from him I do not receive; it is not one of shock, or of condemnation, but of the same contemplation he gave to the port before, and that I have given to him tonight. He begins to speak, appears to think better of it, and then speaks again. My knees weaken, as I anticipate the ruin that awaits – loss of standing, of job, of freedom… and of him… of him…

"My dear Mycroft…" His hand touches mine for one moment, then falls.

Now we see as through a glass, darkly, but then face to face...


End file.
